Angel Airlines, Ready For Boarding
by dancingloki
Summary: Dean is an airline pilot with a raging hard-on for his head flight attendant. Fluffy fluffy fluff. Inspired by this post: arathnait. tumblr .com/post/46236825244/dancingloki-linmarin-katieamnesiaandrews


Dean rolled over, glaring blearily at the squawking alarm clock, blinking 5:00 in bright LED into the dark room. He swatted at the clock carelessly until he finally hit the alarm button, then flipped over onto his back, groaning aloud and squinting resentfully as he rubbed his hands over his stubbled face.

Fuck…Okay. Plane takes off at eight, he has to be at the gate no later than seven, half an hour commute and half an hour to get through the airport…he probably _could_ go back to sleep for another twenty minutes, but he would risk not having time for breakfast if he overslept. Especially since (he peeked into the front of his boxer briefs) skipping the shower was definitely _not_ an option.

With another tired groan, he rolled sideways off the edge of his bed, landing with a _whumph_ on the carpet. He lay for a few moments before struggling to his feet and staggering towards the bathroom, peeling his sticky briefs away from his front.

_It really isn't fair_, he thought, stepping under the shower faucet and turning his face up to the spray. _I'm responsible, I go to bed on time without drinkin' or anything, and what do I get?_ He shut his eyes, letting the hot water wash over him, along with the slowly fading memories of tousled brown hair and vivid blue eyes that had haunted his dreams last night, like every night for the past two months, robbing him of rest.

It really was remarkable how much people can change. Twenty years ago, nobody would have ever believed that Dean Winchester, high school fuckup, bad boy and class clown, could wind up a highly decorated airline pilot. At sixteen, he'd spent all his free time cruising around town in his dad's classic Chevy, causing trouble and chasing skirts. Taking over the duty his drunken father—still drowning his sorrows from the brutal murder of his wife twelve years before—had abandoned, namely raising and caring for his kid brother, left the rebel teen with no motivation to plan his own future. After all, it wasn't like college was an option; someone needed to look after Sammy until the kid turned eighteen, and John sure as hell wasn't up to the task.

Everything changed at the end of his Junior year with the arrival of gruff but kind Uncle Bobby Singer, his dad's old war buddy. When a freak accident burned his business, a salvage yard and auto repair, to the ground, Bobby decided it was time for a change; he took the insurance money and packed up what was left, selling the land and joining the Winchesters in Lawrence, Kansas. A swift kick in the butt and the promise of someone he trusted being there to look after Sam was enough to dislodge Dean's head from his ass, and he cleaned up his act Senior year. He'd been pleasantly surprised to discover that, once he actually started showing up for class, he was a lot smarter than he'd thought he was; and by the end of the year he'd brought his grades up enough to score a halfway decent scholarship to Kansas State.

College was good for Dean. Getting some distance from his homophobic, Alpha-male ex-Marine father gave him the chance to explore his own identity, and coming to terms with his repressed bisexuality had helped him mature, making him much more self-aware. Furthermore, overcoming (with the help of good friends) his lifelong phobia of flying left him with an unexpected passion for aviation.

Getting his private pilot's license had put him on a track to flying professionally; fast-forward fifteen years, and everything in his life was sunshine and daisies. Sam graduated as his high school Valedictorian, the nerd, and went on to law school at Stanford, which left him with a promising career (not to mention a smokin' hot and pretty awesome eventually-wife, Jess, whom Dean adored); and Dean, well, Dean at thirty-six was making a pretty good living doing what he loved and doing it well. His life was pretty much perfect. That is, until two months ago, when the head flight attendant for his crew retired.

Flying came with health hazards. It was part of why Angel Airlines, the company Dean worked for, offered such an attractive retirement package for those who stuck it out long enough. He'd liked Missouri, a lot; she was in her fifties and very motherly. She seemed to sense Dean hadn't had a mom around growing up, so she took every opportunity to pamper him relentlessly. But long years of jet lag and engine noise take their toll, and she had left almost immediately upon reaching the 25-year mark. That, by itself, wasn't a problem. Losing a senior crew member sucked, especially one who was a champion baker, but he was adaptable, after all.

Usually, it was company policy to promote from within the team and bring in new employees to fill out the bottom tier, but Becky Rosen—Missouri's second-in-command in the cabin—was a notorious flake; a good worker in her own right, but not cut out for responsibility. Bringing in a new employee over her would have been a political nightmare, but fortunately for management, a senior flight attendant from another crew had recently requested transfer. The exact details why were sealed, but Dean was told that it was due to a personal conflict with his old crew's Captain. Dean had been apprehensive—what if the new guy was a troublemaker, or worse?—but his fears were unfounded; Castiel Novak turned out to be a model cabin chief. Socially awkward, sure, but diligent, competent, and conscientious. He had a talent for knowing exactly what needed to be done at any given moment to ensure a smooth flight, with no complications.

Unfortunately for Dean's lack of impulse control, he also had perpetually mussed hair dying to have someone's fingers run through it, a deep, gravelly voice that went straight to Dean's groin, impossibly erotic, rough lips, and bedroom eyes with this crazy intense stare that just went right through you. He didn't fix it on anyone else, either; maybe it was just because Dean was the Captain, and Cas (as Dean had taken to calling him) seemed to set a great deal of store in authority. But he felt like he was the only one ever subjected to that stare.

And yes, maybe he had had a raging hard-on for the guy from the first time they ever met and the dude turned around to introduce himself and Dean first got hit with that thousand-watt stare. And maybe every time it got turned on him, he had the unnerving sensation (all in his head, just wishful thinking, of course, he _knew_ that) that Cas was barely restraining himself from just shoving Dean up against the wall and taking him right then and there. It really wasn't a big deal, he wasn't some idiot teen anymore with out-of-control hormones, he could handle a little crush. Whatever.

…Except it pretty quickly turned out to be less of a little crush and more a full-blown obsession. Dean caught himself zoning out while Cas briefed him, staring at the movement of his lips until he practically had to be shaken to snap out of it. Then he started leaving the cockpit door open just to hear that low growl. A safety demonstration should _not_ be that arousing; on more than one occasion, he'd had to visit the lavatory before takeoff to, um…"take care" of a little problem after letting his imagination run away with him about what _other_ things that voice could say, could whisper into his ear while pinning him down against the bed, just the two of them all alone in the dark…

The dreams, though, were the worst part. _Everything_ was more difficult when he was tired, and it was damn near impossible to get a good night's sleep when your head was filled to bursting with all the filthy things you want your unfairly hot, probably straight, _definitely_ off-limits subordinate to do to you. Dean hadn't really had to deal with wet dreams since puberty, but since meeting Cas, they'd started up again in a bad way. Once or twice a week, at first, but by the two-month mark they were showing up every night, getting dirtier and dirtier and taking longer to shake out of his head. Mornings like this one, when he woke up to discover he'd blown a load in his sleep again, were growing alarmingly common.

Last night's had been a doozy. A fresh wave of heat ran through his body as he tried to pull as many details as possible back into his memory. Cas throwing him down to his knees, shoving him up against a wall…he leaned forward, bracing himself against the wall with one arm while he stroked himself…Cas staring down at him, cupping his jaw in one hand, stroking his lower lip gently…he started building up speed, snapping his hips forward into his fist…Cas slamming his head back into the wall and fucking into his mouth, driving deep into his throat until he was choking, gagging, swallowing him down desperately, desperate for more, more contact, more friction, more of the taste and _scent_ of him—Dean could still smell it, filling his nostrils even now, and that was it, he was coming, spurting all over his hand as he shuddered, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. He let out another long groan, but of frustration this time instead of fatigue.

_I dunno how I'm supposed to keep flying if things keep up like this_, Dean thought, letting the hot water beating on his back relax the tension from his muscles. _What is _wrong _with me?! I can't focus when he's around, I can't even fucking sleep at night…Dammit. Keep it together, Winchester, you can _do _this_. He switched off the water with a sigh, stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist. Water beaded and glistened over the sun tattoo on his muscular chest, a match for the one Sam wore; they'd gotten inked together to celebrate Sam's high school graduation.

Dean threw a glance over at the clock as he came out of the bathroom, clean-shaven, toweling his hair dry. 5:35. Damn; he'd spent longer in the shower than he'd meant to. Oh well. A mental replay of a dream like that one was worth a sparse breakfast.

He pulled his uniform from the closet, a broad, almost wolf-like grin spreading across his face. Second-best part of his day, right here. Dean knew how sharp he looked in his pilot's getup, he had the perfect build for it, and something about the buttons made guys and girls alike go _wild_ for him. Almost nothing felt as good as striding through the concourse, watching heads turn as he passed by. Now if only he could turn the head of one guy in particular…

Dean shook his head, snapping out of his reverie. Even if he was into guys, Cas was probably desensitized to the uniform by now, he'd been working for the company longer than Dean had. Of course that didn't stop Dean from double-checking his reflection, making sure his tie was straight and his dark jacket and trousers lint-free, before he headed downstairs to grab some toast or something and then hop behind the wheel of his beautiful old '67 Impala.

Dean strolled up to the departure gate at seven o'clock right on the nose. His co-pilot, Kevin Tran, was already waiting for him. Kevin was a good kid, six or seven years younger than Dean; smart as whip and green as hell, but a natural. They made a good team. Kevin looked up and smiled as Dean approached the terminal, ignoring the stares from the few early passengers already scattered around the gate.

"Dean, hey."

"Mornin', Kevin," Dean drawled back, grinning. "Watcha readin'?"

"Oh, nothing, it's just some chemistry thing." Kevin hurriedly stuffed the thick book into his carry case. "Did you check the weather reports?"

"Yeah. Clear as a bell most of the way, but there's a storm front moving in on Chicago. We _should_ beat it there, if we're on time for wheels-up."

"Cool. Fingers crossed. Hey, I heard that—"

Dean missed the rest of Kevin's chatter, his attention diverted by the _best_ part of his day, the emergence of a dark-haired figure from the jetbridge. _Damn_, Cas looked good in the flight attendant's uniform. At a respectable six feet—just two inches shy of Dean's height, he wouldn't even have to bend down to kiss him—with a stocky, muscled torso, he filled out the simple white suit perfectly. The way the jacket settled on his broad shoulders, the way the pale fabric made his tan skin glow and his eyes pop, even more intense than usual…

"Dean. _Dean_."

_Shit_. "Huh?"

"I said, what do you think?" Kevin was staring anxiously into his face, obviously expecting a response, and Dean had _no idea_ what he'd been talking about.

"Uh…oh, yeah. Yeah, for sure." _Please please please please_…_Yes!_ Kevin was nodding thoughtfully. "That's what I thought too."

Dean sneaked a glance over at the jetbridge; had Cas noticed him staring? But it looked like he'd dodged that bullet, too. The attendant looked perfectly calm, waiting patiently at a respectful distance for them to finish their conversation. Dean threw on his most charming grin (_shut up, I'm not flirting, I'm just being friendly_) and waved, calling out to him.

"Hey, Cas, you ready for us?"

Those eyes snapped to Dean's face, boring into him. Dean swallowed, hoping his uniform jacket was long enough to hide that he was already half-hard as Cas approached.

Cas's eyes didn't leave Dean's once as he spoke: "Good morning, Captain Winchester." As always, Dean's heart beat a little faster and his breath hitched in his throat. He knew he should tell Cas to call him Dean—Angel Airlines was a pretty chill place, they never stood on ceremony—but he was only human, after all, and he seriously got off on how formally Cas talked to him. And if it meant he got to hear five syllables of that voice speaking his name every morning instead of just one, well, that was just a perk. "The mechanic team has finished their preliminary inspection, and the cleaning crew is almost finished. We're ready for you to start the pre-flight check."

"Gotcha." Dean flashed another sparkling smile. "Well, I'd never keep you waitin', Cas." He threw the other man cheeky wink as he strode by to the jetbridge gate. _OK, so I am flirting. Dammit_. Dean cursed himself all the way down the jetbridge, following Kevin's bouncing stride towards the plane. He'd been doing so well at controlling himself, he'd never come on to him so overtly before. _The last damn thing I need at this stage in my life is a fucking sexual harassment lawsuit! Him being drop-dead gorgeous _doesn't _give me the right to drool over him like a jackass. If I don't get my shit together_… He was too wrapped up in his worry to notice the pleased half-smile that had appeared on Cas's face at Dean's words.

As he crossed the jetbridge to the airliner door, still kicking himself, he paused for a moment to look out into the Miami sunrise. It was going to be a gorgeous day. Dean looked over the outside of his jet; just like every other bird the company owned, it was painted with a little cartoon angel and the company slogan: "_Angel Airlines: The Closest You Can Get To Heaven!_" He rolled his eyes. The airline took their Heavenly theme very seriously, from the interior décor to the flight attendants' uniforms.

Becky was waiting in the cabin entrance, blonde, bubbly, and spastic as ever. She was dressed almost identical to Castiel; a pure white suit, jacket, trousers, and shirt, but tailored for women, with a white scarf instead of the white tie Cas was sporting. She was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, jabbering excitedly to a terrified-looking mechanic about the recent developments on one of her favourite TV shows.

Dean steeled himself, waiting for her to notice him. When she did, it was with an earsplitting squeal. "Dean! Ohmigod, did you _hear_—"

"Hey, Becky," Dean sighed wearily. She probably didn't even hear him; she was babbling on, oblivious, as Kevin fluttered nervously behind Dean. _Thank God for Cas_, Dean thought, exasperated. _At least one person on this crew can keep her in line. Which he should be doing in three…two…one…_

"Becky." As always, Cas's voice cut straight through, silencing her instantly—a trick no one else could master. "Have you completed the pre-boarding cabin inspection?"

"Well, no, but see I was doing it but then—"

"Please complete your assigned duties _before_ socializing." Castiel's admonishment was firm, but gentle. Becky nodded frantically and scampered back towards the tail of the plane without another word.

"You're a lifesaver, Cas." Dean fixed the smaller man with a grateful smile. Was it his imagination, or did Cas look quietly pleased with the compliment?

"I am merely performing my assigned duties to the best of my ability." Cas blinked owlishly. "If you will excuse me, Captain?"

A long moment passed before Dean, trying hard not to stare at Cas's mouth, realized he was waiting for Dean to dismiss him. "Oh! Yeah, of course, you do your thing, man."

"Thank you. If you need my assistance, please call."

Dean had to force himself not to watch the movement of Cas's hips as he turned to walk down the rows of seats, checking each one for the required pamphlets. He cleared his throat loudly, clapping Kevin on the back with a bright grin. "All right, let's get this train wreck a-rollin'!"

The flight went without a hitch—no problems all the way, and they even beat the storm front to Chicago—but if Dean didn't know better, he'd think Cas was tormenting him on purpose. It seemed like every time he turned around, Cas was there. Dropping a sheet of paper and bending over to pick it up, _just_ as Dean left the cockpit to take a leak. Opening up a bottle of juice and throwing his head back to drink it, curve of his neck exposed, pink tongue poking out obscenely to lap up the drops in the corner of his mouth. And did Dean imagine Castiel's fingers ghosting over his when he handed him a cup of coffee in the cockpit?

Well, imagination or not, it was driving him fucking crazy. By the time they touched down, he'd had to jack off in the bathroom three times just to keep from coming in his pants, and the day had only barely started.

A swift turnaround in Chicago and they were back in the air on their way to Phoenix, followed by their final leg back to Miami. Cas kept up the (unintentional?) cocktease the whole time, getting bolder and bolder about it—or was that just Dean being hyperaware of every movement, every sidelong flick of the eyes, every graceful stroke of Cas's fingers along his own hip, side, neck, mussing that mop of bedroom hair until Dean could barely breathe…

In the last leg of the journey, things got interesting. Well, things other than the _very_ interesting things already happening in Dean's pants. They were almost halfway home when a belligerent passenger—and isn't there always one?—took issue with the lack of alcohol aboard the aircraft.

Becky, bless her heart, tried valiantly to explain that Angel Airlines never served alcohol on _any_ flight, it was against company policy, but the gigantic Texan would have none of it. He insisted that they had booze stashed somewhere on the plane and were simply refusing to serve any to him, for a variety of nonsensical and increasingly insane reasons.

Dean had come out to grab a cup of coffee—normally he liked having Cas wait on him, for obvious reasons, but he was so wound up by now he didn't think he could restrain himself at close quarters—and was about to intervene on Becky's behalf when Cas materialized.

"Sir, please return to your seat."

The red-faced man spun around, bellowing. He was six foot six if he was an inch, and _enormous_—not _fat_, precisely, but built like a shaved bear. Dean knew he should jump in now, take charge before things got too out of hand, but as he opened his mouth and was about to step forward, Cas caught his eye and shook his head "no". It was small, and subtle, and Dean doubted anyone else saw; but it was enough to make him wait and see what would happen.

His attention returned fully to the passenger, Cas took a deep breath, bracing himself, before cutting through the tirade with the same special voice he usually reserved for Becky's more…exuberant moods.

"Sir. You _will_ return to your seat."

"I ain't goin' nowhere until I get mah whiskey!" the man hollered directly into Cas's face. Cas didn't flinch.

"As Miss Rosen has already explained to you, there _is no_ whiskey. Angel Airlines is a dry establishment. No alcohol is served, _ever_, on _any_ of our aircraft. Take your seat immediately."

"You lyin' rat!" he howled. "You just don't want to serve a good, God-fearing red-blooded American! It's a hom'sexual conspiracy, you—"

"Sir. If you continue this aggressive and disruptive behaviour, I will be forced to take steps to ensure the safety of the passengers and crew."

"Are you _THREATENIN' _me?!" The man's face purpled.

_Okay, that's it_, Dean thought. _I dunno what Cas has planned but no way can he handle this guy_. He stepped forward, breaking into a run when the dude threw a punch.

Cas caught the man's giant fist in one hand, staring him down with a cold, dispassionate, unimpressed expression.

Dean stopped in his tracks, stunned.

Disbelieving, the guy swung with his other, free hand, only to have Cas block that too. In one smooth motion, he put the man on his knees, shoving his face down into the armrest of his seat, controlling his movements completely with one arm twisted up behind his back.

He leaned down over the man, speaking clearly directly into his ear. His voice was somehow even lower than usual, and threat dripped from every word.

"Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to let go of you. You are going to apologize to Miss Rosen for being rude to her, and then return to your seat, where you will spend the remainder of the flight, with your seatbelt securely fastened. You will not leave your seat for any reason. You will not speak to any member of the crew. If you speak to any of the other passengers, you will not raise your voice above a whisper. When we reach Miami, you will disembark the aircraft and leave the terminal without speaking to or interacting with any member of the crew. You will not fly with Angel Airlines again. You will not attempt to take any revenge, legal or otherwise, over this incident. If you do not comply fully with _every_ element of these instructions, I will press charges against you for physical assault and domestic terrorism, and you will go to prison for a _very_ long time. If you cause any further trouble while aboard this aircraft, you will spend the remainder of the flight physically restrained in the cupboard where we usually store the drinks trolley. Nod if you understand me."

The Texan nodded frantically, whimpering.

"Good. I'm letting go now."

Cas released the man, who _dove_ for his seat, fumbling desperately with his seatbelt and, once it was fastened, shrinking in on himself, cowed. After a moment, Cas cleared his throat, throwing a meaningful glance at Becky, who was staring, her head on a swivel between the two. The man swallowed hard, then whispered: "Ma'am, I apologize for bein' rude."

"That's, um…that's okay?" Becky chirped uncertainly.

After a moment, Cas broke the silence once again. "You may continue with the beverage service now, Becky," he prompted calmly, as if nothing had happened.

"Oh! Right! Yes! Of course, got it, yep," she babbled, flashing a manic grin and bustling back to work.

Dean was standing stunned in the aisle. Cas pulled his jacket smooth and straightened his tie deliberately before glancing over to Dean.

He _smirked_.

Dean's jaw hit the floor, and he bolted for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him and pressing back up against it, his chest heaving and eyes wide. He had _never_ seen such a, a—_sinful_, there was no other word for it—expression on Cas's face. Watching him take down that jackass had been bad enough; he'd no idea that Cas was so strong, and his head would be filled for _days_ with thoughts of it being _him_ who was held down and pushed around like that.

But that look on his face. And he'd looked _right at_ Dean, too, _right_ into his eyes. Like he _knew_, like he could look right through him and see _exactly_ what it did to him. Dean looked down at his crotch and groaned, banging his head back against the door. _Well fuck. He probably _does _know, now_. Popping a boner over watching your crush beat the shit out of some asshole had to be near the top of the list of most embarrassing moments in Dean's life.

Five minutes later, when he was…"calm" enough to emerge, Cas was blessedly nowhere in sight. Dean slunk into the cockpit gratefully, where he quarantined himself for the rest of the flight.

When the wheels hit the tarmac in Florida, Dean let out a heavy sigh. _What a nightmare_. He maneuvered the plane expertly to the gate, thrilled beyond belief to be safely on the ground, where his errant boners ran no risk of accidentally crashing the plane. _All I gotta do now is get out of the airport without molesting Cas and I'm golden_, Dean thought, straining to keep his cool. _Keep it together, Winchester. Come on_.

…_Dammit, what now?_ Kevin was giving him a weird look. "What?"

"You, um…you okay, Dean?"

Dean's hearty laugh sounded false in his own ears. "Yeah, 'course, why wouldn't I be?"

Kevin shifted nervously in his seat. " 'Cause you always stand in the entryway to farewell the passengers on the last flight of the day, and you're not doing it. And I figured you'd _especially_ want to be out there today, keeping an eye on things in case that guy tries something else."

_Fuck_. "I'm just tired, Kevin, a guy can't take a breather?" _And I'm definitely not hiding in here so I don't accidentally fall to my knees and beg Cas to rip my clothes off. Nope_.

His co-pilot looked unconvinced, but let the subject drop, to Dean's relief. He managed to find enough fiddly things to fuss with, running through the final checklist and fumbling with dials and switches, that the passengers were all disembarked and the cabin crew almost done with their post-flight inspection before he couldn't stall anymore and ventured out into the cabin, leaning against the entryway doorjamb to watch his team finish.

Becky was bubbling and bouncing, still as energetic as she'd been at the beginning of the day. _How does she do it?_ Dean wondered idly as he watch her flounce around the cabin, picking up trash and tidying things. Cas, his jacket slung on a seatback nearby, was far more sedate. Dean's eyes followed him as he went from row to row, moving with a calm, composed surety that made Dean shiver. His eyes caressed the muscled curves of the man's solid frame as he walked. No, he didn't walk—he _stalked_, moving like a predator, like some wild jungle cat. Beautiful, and graceful, but with power running deep beneath the surface. Dean didn't know how he'd missed it before, but now he couldn't see anything else.

He wasn't aware he was staring, enraptured, until Cas turned around to meet his eyes. There was a spark, a flash between them of something unspoken, and Dean looked down, blushing beet red at being caught. But when he looked back up, Cas was still standing stock-still, staring straight into his eyes, and Dean saw a self-satisfied smile cross his face before he turned around to stride back towards the tail of the plane.

_Wait…what?_

Dean didn't have time to ponder the…_whatever_ just happened between them, though. Not when Becky came bounding up to him to jar him back to reality, bouncing on her heels as she spoke in her usual breathy squeal. "Dean! Dean! We have to go out tonight and _celebrate_!"

"Cele—hang on, what? Celebrate what?" Dean's brow furrowed as he tried to catch up. Had he missed some critical conversation while spacing out?

Becky rolled her eyes. "Castiel, _obviously_. The way he totally put the smackdown on that jerk! He's like a real-life Prince Charming," and she threw a soppy look of adoring hero-worship in Castiel's direction, one of the kind usually reserved for her celebrity 'boyfriends'.

Dean was both reassured and amused by the discomfort on Cas's face when he saw the look Becky was giving him. "How 'bout it, your Highness?" he teased, trying to keep the hope out of his voice. "You up for a drink with us peasants tonight?"

Cas shot him a _don't-encourage-her_ glare as he stalked up to join them. "Frankly, I'm feeling a bit run-down. It's been a long day—longer than usual—and I was hoping to do some…relaxing, tonight."

Okay, now, that pause was suggestive. That was a _suggestive pause_. That pause was laden with innuendo and all the mind-blowing things Dean could imagine Cas doing to 'relax.' And maybe the flirtatious behaviour today was just in his head, and maybe Dean had just imagined any subtext behind the looks Castiel had been giving him since they met, but he did _not_ imagine Castiel looking directly, if briefly, into his eyes _during_ said very suggestive pause.

Dean was having some serious trouble keeping up with the day's events.

Fortunately, Kevin chose that moment to poke his head into the cabin. "Hey guys, the mechanics are ready for us to get out of their way."

"Then we should do so," Cas replied solemnly. Becky snatched the opportunity to monopolize Kevin as a captive audience for the fangirling she didn't manage to get through that morning, and Cas and Dean trailed behind them along the jetbridge and up into the deserted terminal.

Dean lagged as much as he dared, trying to gain as much distance from Kevin and Becky as possible without being too obvious or attracting attention. He was thrilled when Cas slowed to match his pace, leaving the two of them alone as the echoes of Becky's voice faded, remembering almost too late that he should probably be making small talk.

"So, any big plans for our day off tomorrow, Cas?"

"Not particularly. I did mean what I said to Becky, however. I do need to take some time to relax. The past two months have been…fairly stressful."

Dean glanced sideways, instantly worried. _Stressful? Stressful how? Does he not like the team? Is it me? Oh, God, oh, _shit_, he's freaked over me going all crazy stalker on him, he's gonna request another transfer, oh _fuck _me_!

What he actually managed to squeak out was, "Oh, yeah?", praying that Cas would overlook the octave his voice rose on the second syllable.

It looked like his luck, which had been _unbelievable_ all day, was holding steady; Cas let it pass without comment, merely a discontented sigh. Dean waited with bated breath, but Cas didn't elaborate.

So, he did what came naturally to him. He pushed it.

"You havin' trouble, Cas?"

The response was guarded. "Captain, I'm not sure what you mean."

"Just, I dunno…trouble. You said you been stressed, I dunno." Dean was blushing again, he knew it, but he kept rambling. "Is it—have you been havin' trouble? Like, with the team? Only all they'd tell me about why you requested transfer was you didn't get along with your last Captain, and…well."

He didn't look at the man beside him, just lengthened his stride, speeding up as if he could outrun his embarrassment. In his peripheral vision, he was relieved to see Cas speeding up as well to keep up with him. He knew he qualified as babbling by this point, but he couldn't stop.

"I'm not sayin' I think you're gonna leave or anything, I'd just hate to think you were stressed or somethin' because of not gettin' along with us. That's all." Dean took a breath. "So, just…if you were havin' trouble, you'd let me know, right?"

There was a brief pause, during which Dean didn't dare look over. After a moment, Cas spoke.

"Captain Winchester, my conflict with my last crew Captain was a fairly unique situation. He was very strongly Catholic, and as such had strong views on…on homosexuality." Dean heard his voice falter, then regain strength. "He was very responsible and respectful, and never treated me poorly or differently, but I was uncomfortable serving under him given his views. I made it clear I didn't wish it to reflect poorly on his character when I requested transfer. Obviously, that hasn't been a problem with this crew. My recent stress has nothing to do with any personal conflict with any member of the team."

Dean let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and pretended the relief flooding his body was just over keeping such a valuable team member. _Not personal, nope, not at all. Not in the _least _bit thrilled that I get to keep seeing him every morning, or that I'm not the cause of his stress. Nope_. "Well, good. That's—" he flashed a wide, genuine grin at the man next to him. "That's great, Cas."

…And then after a moment, like picking a scab: "Then what is it that's got you stressed? Work's been no worse than usual, even less maybe, so what is it? Do you got something goin' on, like…personal stuff, or somethin'?"

The question was met with silence, so he forged ahead. " 'Cause if you did, ya know, I'd have your back."

That got a soft chuckle. "Indeed?"

" 'Course I would," he grinned, pleased. "Whatever you need, Cas, I gotcha."

"How reassuring." Dean would have been offended if he didn't know Cas's dry humour so well.

"Don't sound so skeptical, Cas," he tossed out flippantly, then making his voice grave and dramatic, drawing himself up on false seriousness. "You have my word."

Dean heard a deep, heavy sigh behind him and stopped short, instantly on alert. He hadn't even noticed Cas dropping behind. He turned around slowly, only to see Castiel, looking _pissed_.

"But you're not a man of your word, Captain," Cas growled low, staring directly into Dean's eyes and without warning stepping towards him, _way_ too close for his comfort.

Dean swallowed hard before replying, utterly confused, wincing internally as he heard his own voice crack with nerves. "W-what are you talking about?"

"You said this morning that you'd never keep me waiting," and Cas was stepping forward again, compelling Dean to step back. "You lied." Cas took another half-step forward, but there was nowhere left for Dean to go, his back impacting suddenly against the wall. "You've kept me waiting two damn months, Captain." Another half-step, and Castiel was _right up_ in Dean's face, literally inches away.

"I—I don't—"

"You want to know why I've been stressed, Captain? Two months of waiting, of watching you, convinced it was all my imagination, telling myself to control my urges, telling myself you were just a friendly man, that you didn't want me the way I wanted so badly for you to want me. Telling myself you weren't really staring at me. Two months, two months watching you, watching your eyes sparkle, watching the way that jacket fits your shoulders—" somehow he pressed even closer; Dean could feel Cas's breath ghosting over his lips, could feel the heat of his body bleeding through the fabric of their clothes— "two months restraining myself, stopping myself every _moment_ of _every_ day from just tearing it off you…two months forcing myself not to throw you down and shove you against the wall and watch you wrap those perfect plump lips around my cock…"

Dean's eyes squeezed shut, his face flushed hot red with shame at the needy, desperate whine that escaped his throat. Hearing all the things he'd been picturing that deep voice saying, finally really in the air and into his ears; knowing that Cas had been imagining the same things he'd been dreaming about, had been thinking about touching him in all the ways he wanted…

A low, throaty chuckle echoed in his ear. Dean cracked one eyelid, only to see the raunchiest, most debauched smirk he'd never thought he'd see on Cas's normally stoic face. The dark-haired man was staring down at Dean's _very_ obvious erection. Dean swallowed hard again, fists clenching at his sides, closing his eyes again. All the times he'd pictured this happening, all the sleepless nights he'd lain awake, his whole body thrumming with want; and now he had Cas right in front of him, pressing him up against a wall and rumbling dirty talk right into his ear, and he was _completely paralyzed_ and oh _fuck_ he's talking again…

"Well, look at that. I had a feeling you'd be a sucker for dirty talk. It's nice to be right." He chuckled again and hummed, pleased, as Dean let out another helpless whine. "Hmmm…that looks almost _painful_, Captain. Is it?" He leaned forward, pressing his lips into the curve of Dean's ear and whispering. "Does it hurt? Does it hurt how much you want me, Captain? Can you feel it throbbing?" Dean whimpered as Cas's chapped lips trailed along his earlobe. "Would you like my assistance?"

Cas laughed once more, deep and rough. "Come on, tell me. All you have to do is say it. Do you want that, Captain? Do you want me to touch you? Touch you the way I know you've been touching yourself, thinking of me, moaning my name into your pillow at night?" He planted a soft kiss under the curve of Dean's jaw, then caught him when his knees buckled, chuckling again. "Just ask me. Say it, say it out loud, and I'll do everything you've been dreaming of." He nuzzled Dean's neck gently.

"Ask me. Tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it." He sighed low and sweet into Dean's ear, pressing him hard against the wall, bracing his body with his shoulder. "Come on, Captain Winchester. Say it."

Dean was panting, his breath coming in hard, ragged huffs, but he managed to choke out: "P-please…"

"Please what, Captain?" Castiel murmured, unrelenting.

"T-touch me…"

That was all Cas was waiting for; Dean gasped aloud at the sudden pressure, Cas's broad palm grinding down firmly onto his cock. He cried out, too far gone to be embarrassed at how high and needy and wrecked his voice sounded, as Cas kneaded and massaged him through the fabric of his trousers, and then collapsed forward, limp and boneless. Castiel caught him, held and gentled him through the aftershocks of the hardest and _best_ damned orgasm he'd _ever_ had in his life, whispering wordlessly sweet and comforting things into his ear.

When his vision cleared and he could breathe again, he looked up from where he was sitting, propped against the wall, to where Cas stood looming over him with something like fondness etched across his face.

It took a couple of tries before he could remember how to speak, and when he did, all he could manage was: "_Jesus_, Cas!"

Cas smirked. "I must admit, I knew you'd like being manhandled, but that was a more dramatic response than even I was expecting."

"H-h—" Dean swallowed hard, trying to clear his throat. "How could you know what I'd like?"

Cas tilted his head to one side, a depraved grin spreading across his face. "Isn't it obvious?"

Dean shook his head. "Not to me."

The fierce and predatory look melted as Cas's face softened. He knelt down, nudging Dean's knees aside to nestle himself between his legs and stare straight into his eyes, reaching out one hand to stroke Dean's cheek.

"It's simply the kind of man you are. You work so hard to keep everything under control… Dean, you are _extraordinary_. Every day, you show up to the airport and throw everything you have into serving everyone else. No matter what, no matter how tired you are, whatever else is going on in your life, you unfailingly put your own needs and desires to one side in favor of caring for your crew and your passengers. Becky told me about how last year you showed up to work with a 104-degree fever and had to be _forced_ to go home, because doing your duty was more important to you than your own well-being."

Dean dipped his head, flustered by the praise, but firm fingers gripped his chin, tipping his head back up to meet Castiel's eyes. "Isn't it natural that a man who works so hard to keep everything under control would get off on letting someone else control him?"

The wicked grin was back on Castiel's mouth, and Dean could feel a matching one spreading across his own face as Cas continued.

"Besides, I've been playing a little bit today. Testing your responses. And I figured out your little secret." He leaned in close, whispering softly directly into Dean's ear. "You like it when I take charge. Turns you on, doesn't it? I saw the hard-on you were sporting when I dealt with that rowdy passenger."

He stood suddenly, backing up a half-step and dragging his eyes shamelessly over Dean's groin. Dean felt himself start to blush at Cas's dirty smirk, realizing he was already growing visibly hard again, but instead of being embarrassed this time, he simply spread his legs a little wider apart, lounging carelessly against the wall and cocking an eyebrow suggestively.

"Like what you see?" he teased, winking.

Castiel licked his lips. "Oh, yes. Most definitely. May I offer a proposal, Captain?"

Dean was momentarily taken aback, both by Cas's sudden return to formality and by his dramatic shift in expression from seductive and debauched back to serious and grave, but he rolled with it. "Uh, sure. Whaddya have in mind?"

Castiel nodded to himself solemnly, his trademark stare riveted on Dean's face. "Given that our crew is not on duty tomorrow, I propose that we retire immediately to your house, where we spend as high a percentage as possible of the next thirty-six hours fucking each other into oblivion. Your thoughts?"

Dean gaped.

For the second time in ten minutes, it took him a long moment to remember how to talk. When he did, he could only croak out: "That, uh, that sounds pretty good, yeah!"

"Excellent." A small smile haunted Castiel's lips, and he reached out a hand, hauling Dean to his feet before slamming him back against the wall and driving their lips together. He thrust his tongue into Dean's mouth, sucking and nipping at his lips, pulling long, needy moans from his throat until his knees shook and he was seeing stars. Then, he suddenly pulled away and strode off, leaving Dean shellshocked against the wall.

He was grinning like a maniac as he followed Cas down the hall towards the parking structure, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to care. A full night ahead of him, living out every dirty fantasy and wet dream he'd ever had about the sex god in front of him?

Yep. Everything's comin' up Dean.

...

Inspired by this post: arathnait. tumblr post/46236825244/dancingloki-linmarin-katieamnesiaandrews


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